


All of You

by Dulcinea



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Chance Meetings, F/M, Mentions of miscarriage, Short One Shot, Subtle sex, marriage problems, mentions of cheating, mentions of divorce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:54:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29807328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dulcinea/pseuds/Dulcinea
Summary: At a party celebrating the achievements of Bulma Briefs, the heiress of Capsule Corporation, her father introduces her to a man that captivates her mind and her life over the years. A man she can’t have, for good reason. A ring on his finger was all she needed to stay far away.Life throws curveballs though.An AU one-shot.
Relationships: Bulma Briefs/Vegeta
Comments: 9
Kudos: 66





	All of You

Bulma remembered the night they first met better than Vegeta did. The way he was dressed, how he talked, what he ate, where he was staying—the ring on his finger, fresh and new, how it shined under the dim light, flickering like a warning sign. Her warning sign to stay away. A warning sign she took seriously and knew well. She kept the thought vigilant in her mind with every fidgeted rub to her own naked ring finger under the table, the ghost of the engagement then and the marriage that never was. 

Her boyfriend Yamcha beside her should’ve been reason enough to resist the obvious magnetism and subsequent temptation, but she found herself captivated by this man who listened to every word she said with a rapt attention her boyfriend would never match. Her father was right to introduce this man to her. Because  _ wow _ .

Vegeta stimulated her mind without fail. He kept the conversation going. He asked questions and listened to her babbling answers about science and technology and everything Yamcha hated to talk about. He made her feel special in a way that the gift baskets and showering of flashing lights and scientific awards and endless accolades to the heiress of Capsule Corp couldn’t replicate. 

Vegeta was real. He made her feel real.

Yamcha left when dinner finished, back to their hotel. The wick of their table candle receded. Music stopped. People filtered out.

They shared a cigarette once they were kicked out. She took it from his hand. Callused fingertips touched her pampered own—a sensation she pocketed into memory.

His eyes focused on her lips as she took a drag. She returned the gesture, watching his pucker around the white end, and the lit tip shined in his pitch black eyes.

It shined on his ring too, and she took a step back.

“I should go,” Bulma said.

She remembered how his face fell. “But—” And he stopped, the realization sucker-punching herself too, as he took a step back as well. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

The cigarette fell to the ground. “I’m sorry.”

“I am too.”

He closed the gap between them to kiss her cheek. Stubble scraped the skin. His lips were soft. The intoxicating cologne—“Farewell, Miss Briefs.”—and his whisper. That husky whisper.

She returned the gesture, pressing her closed lips to his cool skin. “Goodbye, Vegeta.”

In the taxi, she caught her last glimpse of him in the rear-view mirror. The way he stood on the sidewalk, the way he looked—his finger thumbing his ring, and Bulma found herself repeating the gesture to her own bare ring finger until she couldn’t see him anymore.

*** 

He still looked good four years later. She recognized him; he completely bypassed her. Rude defined his attitude and mannerisms. He was focused on the papers in front of him and the full glass of wine, drinking and flipping pages almost synchronized. It amused and worried her. Gone was the Vegeta she met. Hard working and driven, but knew when to listen, when to kick back and have fun. Sitting at the very end was a man she didn’t know, a fuck-off fuck-you asshole who didn’t care about anything or anyone but his own self.

Then, he dumped the papers across the table and threw his head into his hands.

She felt her chest pull forward, and her legs followed.

Vegeta came closer and closer in her vision, until he filled it all up, and she rested a hand on the small of his back.

His head turned up. The confusion and anger she caught quickly turned into shock.

She smiled. “Hi Vegeta.”

The reaction blindsided her. There was no big shout or arms flinging or sudden rejection. All he did was smile back, but the way he whispered her name—“Bulma”—followed by his arms settling around her torso, and his head settling over her heart… it reassured her that he was still in there, the guy she met back then, as well as gutted her too. Vegeta was hurt. Vegeta was stressed. Overworked. Exhausted.

No ring.

She looked him in the eye when she asked, “What happened?”

In the very back of the restaurant, in a private booth Vegeta situated for the two of them, he answered that question thoroughly. And she recognized the words all too well from her own life. Failing marriage. A trial separation he never wanted but she insisted. Missing her terribly and the subsequent feelings of self-hatred. Working long hours to cope with it all. The struggles at work to begin with. Little sleep. Big room, big bed, too much time, too much fucking time.

“You know what’ve I feared most of my life?” he said.

“What?”

“Being alone in the end.” His eyes shined in the candlelight, a rueful smirk on his face. “Guess I deserve it, after how I treated her.”

Her hand reached for over the table. “No.” She squeezed his fingers, leaning in. “You don’t.”

Four years ago, she would have regretted this. Going to his hotel room, sitting on his hotel bed, stripping off his clothes, him stripping off hers, laying him on the sheets and her straddling his waist—she could’ve stopped it all like she did back then, right in the middle of the street, right in front of the restaurant. But her boyfriend Yamcha was the boyfriend-no-more, and Vegeta had no ring, for now. They were free. They were alone.

She knew his loneliness all too well.

“Fuck…” His eyes closed and opened as she made a rhythm on his dick. His hands smoothed and petted her working thighs and hips, sliding down the curve of her ass and up. “Bulma…” His eyes shined in the bathroom light—the only light in the room—and he gasped, moaned, gasped again her name, “Bulma,” as she moved faster, settling her palms over his pecs.

He looked desperate. Needy. He squeezed her hips, tilting his up to hers. He worked with her rhythm, let her set the pace he followed easily. He reacted to her actions—to every nipple pinch, every bite to his neck, every kiss to his lips and forehead and cheeks. And it wasn’t just the orgasm she saw when he came.

Vegeta yearned for this. For her.

She choked out “Vegeta” when she came too.

That one time should’ve been enough for both of them. 

Bulma ended up staying in his hotel room for the week. 

In between the sex, she made him talk. And Vegeta talked. And talked. And got emotional, talking about how sick and tired he was of everything falling apart—his business, his marriage, his friendship with a guy named Kakarot, “I just want something to fucking work dammit, why can’t I fucking make it work, what’s wrong with me, why can’t I fix this, why am I fucking up so much,” and she soothed him in words, touches, and sex, in that order. 

She gave him the advice she knew he needed, the advice of a once-abandoned divorcee, and Vegeta listened. She saw him listen. And when she finished her story—of her abandonment by a man she had loved, an abandonment that happened so soon after a miscarriage of a child she truly wanted and never dreamt of losing, of her constant struggle to maintain and separate her work life from her private life, especially after the years of therapy and healing from that traumatic point of her life—he kissed her and thanked her in words, touches, and sex too, in that order.

On the last day, Vegeta put his ring back on. She called a cab. He escorted her out and waited with her on the morning streets. He offered a cigarette. She watched him smoke instead. They stood in a comfortable silence Bulma hadn’t enjoyed in a long time with someone, and a ping of regret reared its ugly head.

_ You shouldn’t have done this _ , it said.  _ He’s still technically married. What were you thinking? _

She fidgeted in place. Vegeta stayed calm.

_ Not again. If he asks you to stay, say no. You can’t. _

He never did.

When she entered the cab. Vegeta leaned into the window and gave her a kiss that he lingered on when they parted.

“Thank you, Bulma.”

The ping of regret grew and consumed her chest, swallowing up her stomach. “Vegeta—”

His fingers pressed over her mouth.

She stopped.

They skipped over and down the side, to her chin. His eyes focused on her lips, and they turned shiny as he whispered, “I wish…”

He shut his eyes. His teeth gritted. His lips curled.

Her shaky hand reached for his.

Vegeta slipped his out and pushed away, back onto the curve. He slapped the cab top. “Go.”

Bulma’s hand fell onto her lap as the taxi sped away.

She saw him in the rear-view mirror again. The way he turned his back. How he walked into the hotel lobby. Hunched over. Hands in his pockets. A burning cigarette still burning on the sidewalk. And she still looked at the mirror even when she couldn’t see him anymore, her hands twisting and fidgeting in her lap.

***

Vegeta came to her three years later. She almost didn’t recognize him. The last time she saw Vegeta was in passing on a busy street, where he sported a thick beard and a three piece burgundy suit, arguing loudly over the phone. She made a point to tell Vegeta about that chance encounter after the proverbial hellos and how are you’s. How good he looked. How she missed him. How she wanted to cross the street and stop this obvious bad phone call with Kakarot most likely, hug him and distract him however she could. But she didn’t. Bulma held herself back.

“And I wish I hadn’t,” she confessed. 

“I’m glad you didn’t.” She wasn’t able to react when he said, “I wasn’t ready for you.”

A beat of silence. She took in his look now—the same suit, but no beard. Still wrinkles of worry on his tanned face. Still tired. But the longer he stood there, staring at her, the more… at ease Vegeta became. 

She asked, “What do you mean?” 

His genuine smile caught Bulma off guard. So did his reply. “I wasn’t ready to lose a woman like you because of a guy like me.”

_ Okay, what the hell happened _ , said Bulma’s concern from three years ago, and it wouldn’t go away during their impromptu light dinner conversation.

So, she asked. And like then, Vegeta spilled.

“I’m divorced.”

She got the whole story. How he applied everything their marriage counseling told him and his ex-wife to try—to no avail. How the company he built from the ground up nearly fell apart. How he nearly lost his best friend Kakarot in the process. How he and Kakarot found a way to stay together, work together, and were much, much better now than they ever were in the past. How the two of them every day learned something new about the other, grew the business and pushed each other to be better, smarter, stronger. How proud he was of Kakarot getting his shit together and keeping his family life. How jealous he was of Kakarot now with his happy life and his wife and kids. How Vegeta hated that he was jealous. How his ex-wife told Vegeta she was bored. She wasn’t happy. She was tired.

“She said…” Vegeta’s eyes shined like they did years ago. This time, though, his voice cracked. “She didn’t love me anymore.”

Bulma reached for his hand over the table.

Vegeta took it.

A half hour later, they left hand in hand, fingers twined.

One more hour later, they went to Vegeta’s room.

In the morning, they woke up together, still clothed, tired from drinking, eating, and talking all night long. She found him cuddled up to her side, tuffs of wild black hair sticking up everywhere, his breath tickling her breastbone. Their clasped hands stayed clasped through the night, over her hip.

Bulma kissed his forehead and fell back asleep to his soft breathing.

***

Eight years later, on an evening where Kakarot and his wife Chichi were watching over their children Trunks and Bulla, she and Vegeta went out to a nearby restaurant near Capsule Corp. In the middle of dinner, Bulma asked Vegeta, “Do you remember how we first met?”

“Which one?”

“The very first one.”

He pursed his lips, a glass of red wine hovering in front of his face. “I think so…” His eyes glanced up at her over the rim. “Your father introduced us to each other.”

“He did.”

“You were wearing a red dress.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Short hair?”

“Long.”

“Damn.” 

She chuckled, laying out a hand across their dining room table. Vegeta’s fell on top of it. Both ringless still. Both absolutely fine with it. “Two out of three isn’t bad.”

“Still disappointed in myself.” 

“Vegeta…”

“What?” He squeezed her hand and smiled. “I want to remember everything about you.” 

She smiled back.

**Author's Note:**

> My first Vegebul story! I hope it was okay and that even as an AU, I still kept to their characters somewhat. (I also haven’t written F/M sex in a decade, lol. This is me easing back into it. I usually write M/M or F/F sex.)


End file.
